


Measures

by Lempo Soi (Lemposoi)



Category: Boston Legal, Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: 1980s, Challenge: A Ficathon Walks Into A Bar, Crossover, F/M, Gay Bar, Lawyers, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemposoi/pseuds/Lempo%20Soi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigel testifies in a trial to something that happened in 1983.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measures

It was Thursday night, but there was still a line outside the Waugh Head at 7 pm. People were tearing it up all week long these days. It was the only way to survive Reagan's America.

Nigel had arrived in Boston three months ago, but was giving the job hunt a rest for as long as William and his love of the nightlife lasted, and could satisfy. You were only young once, after all, and Nigel was barely 21. He tottered up the sidewalk with a whiskey and rum already under his belt, though his unsteadiness was more down to the divine Prada shoes he was trying on for the first time.

As difficult as it had been reconciling love of women's shoes with the secret shame of bisexuality, he'd managed to indulge both even back home in Maine - just not in quite such style. That was all thanks to William. Nigel knew he and William were probably just something for the spring, but Prada was forever.

The heels were killing him, and he loved every second.

"Hey, Brett," he said to the disarmingly gorgeous doorman as he breezed past the line and kissed him on the cheek. "Is Martha in yet?"

"Just putting her face on backstage," Brett said with a nod and a smile you could feel all the way to your toes. Damn. Too bad he was a biphobe. It was really absurd, the things Nigel had to keep to himself these day.

He pushed the door open and carefully navigated the steep three steps down to the floor. The room was semi-dark, punctuated by coloured lights, with glossy black tables and black walls and seats with neon striped upholstery. It wasn't the nicest gay bar in town, but the entertainment beat the rest hands-down. The clientele liked it with a bit of drab to it, or so William insisted every time Nigel suggested he redecorate. Nigel still thought that time would come for an image update, if only when news came about that Martha's drag act was about to become a straight act after she publicized her transition.

Nigel was thinking – hoping – it wouldn't slow the party down, but you never know. Half the crowd didn't want anything to do with people they didn't want to fuck. It was harsh, but it was life. He'd had a few ideas about fashion marketing – his not-so-secret dream profession – that could utilize this principle of subtle attraction. It didn't take much to add kink to an already sexy ad...

He headed through the semi-crowded room towards the stage door, beyond the dance floor, which was pulsing with a few early starters and Gloria Gaynor. Martha would just die when she saw him. If anybody understood how special your first pair of Prada shoes was, it would be her.

"You try that on me one more time and I swear I will rip you a new one, Alan Shore!" Martha's usually soft voice shouted just as the stage door slammed open and a youngish, blonde man in a white button-up shirt staggered out backwards and into Nigel. Martha steamed down the corridor beyond, her pretty plump face scrunched up in anger.

"Martha, I promise, I am actually trying to do you a good turn." The man, Alan Shore, raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "If you'll just sign the deal--"

Martha slipped off one of her shoes and brandished the heel at Alan, at which he quite sensibly cowered. "I'll call you, okay?" he tried.

"I'd rather you lose my number!" Martha pulled back her arm as if to throw the shoe, and Alan ran off.

"What was that all about?" Nigel said, swallowing a nervous laugh. Martha could be terrifying when she chose, despite the huge crush Nigel cherished for her. (When she sang, even the most cynical heart stirred and skipped like a lamb at springtime.)

"Men are all bastards," Martha huffed.

"I know, darling," said Nigel and put his arm around her.

*

"Objection, Your Honor. What does all this have to do with the case at hand?" Denise Chase's pen was whirring between her thumb and forefinger. She was worried.

"Your Honor, the prosecutor opened the trial for circumstantial evidence," Alan Shore said without even bothering to turn around. "I agree this trial is a waste of time, but we do intend to show an equal weight of circumstantial evidence to argue our side of the case."

"All the evidence we have presented is crucial," Denise Chase insisted. "It shows a distinct pattern of behaviour that is incompatible with innocence."

"The prosecutor's case rests on proving my heterosexuality, and using it to argue that my marriage to Denny Crane was a fraud designed to bypass inheritance law," Alan Shore said calmly. "I mean to prove my sexuality is not nearly as relentless as Ms Chase intimates."

"I'll allow it," Judge Brown grunted.

"Go on, Nigel," Alan said with an encouraging smile.

*

"Oh, he's not my _boyfriend_ ," Martha said, laughing. "He's my lawyer."

They were sitting backstage, Martha back at her mirror, pinning extensions on her short afro, while Nigel rested his feet on a little loveseat tucked between the wardrobe and the door. The shoes had been noted and cooed over, and he'd done a little turn for her. Martha seemed already recovered from her moment of rage.

"He's second-chairing my case against Wen, but he's trying to push a settlement deal on me. He's--"

*

"May I remind the witness that confidentiality on previous cases should be honoured as long as they have no direct influence on the case at hand?"

"Indeed. Mr Kipling, you will abstain from revealing any private details of closed cases."

"I still fail to see what this has to do with the case of annulment against the defendant," Denise Chase interjected.

"She has a point." Judge Brown gave Alan Shore a beady-eyed glare. "Get on with it."

"To cut a long story short," Nigel said, smoothing his trouser legs nervously, "that wasn't the last time I saw Alan Shore at the Waugh Head."

"Are you implying that the defendant had an affair with this Martha person?" Judge Brown asked, squinting at Nigel.

"That would be a silly way to argue he liked men, wouldn't it?" Nigel asked pointedly. "Since Martha was a woman."

"A crossdresser!" Judge Brown scoffed.

Nigel gave him a hard squint back. "You are a nasty, tiny, bigoted excuse of a man," he said in a measured tone. "Aren't you, judge?"

Judge Brown gasped and spluttered. "I will have you held in contempt of court--"

"Trust me, I am only in contempt of you personally."

"Mr Kipling," Alan Shore said hurriedly, "you claim that I like men, sexually. Is that correct?"

"Considering you had a boyfriend back in the 80s and married a Republican, I don't see how anyone could think any different."

"Objection, Your Honor," Denise Chase said in a clipped, angry voice. "Mr Shore has failed to produce any old boyfriends to testify on his behalf. That Mr Kipling saw him hang around a gay bar to meet with a client twenty years ago hardly stands up as any kind of evidence."

"Oh, it was more than that," Nigel said.

"Please direct your witness to only answer the questions put to him," the judge advised.

"Mr Kipling, please," said Alan. "Tell us in your own words why you believe I had a boyfriend in 1983."

*

William was over, but the Waugh Head wasn't. There'd been no redecorating, but thankfully also no mass exodus after Martha came out as a woman 24/7. Nigel still came over whenever he could afford it, both in the sense of time and money, since the job hunt was back on with a vengeance. He spent the working hours of every day sending letters and making phone calls to employers and employment agencies, and every evening perfecting and adding to his marketing portfolio, or studying marketing strategies. Going out became an irregular thing, but a necessary one, just to keep from dissolving into someone responsible before the age of 30. He'd always been inclined that way, and it took effort not to plan his whole life out in a series of colour-coded timetables.

It was early on a July Tuesday that he next saw Alan Shore at the Waugh Head. The weather was a gorgeous, the sun heating the sidewalk to scouring and painting everything in sharp bright colours. The bar had only just opened, and it was a testament to its great value to the local community that anyone was in at all.

Alan was sitting with Martha at her regular corner booth, a drink of whisky before him, while she was having something pink and swirly in a tall thin glass. She was beaming with joy, and half-stood to wave Nigel over. They greeted each other with a continental kiss and he wedged himself between the table and the neon-upholstered seat.

"I don't believe we have been introduced," he said to Alan, pasting on his best smile. It was at this close proximity that he first noticed that Alan was easy on the eyes, at the very least, despite the boring shirt. He had a lovely Cupid mouth and a somewhat un-lawyerly wavy halo of hair, and his eyes were languid and naughty. He looked about as trustworthy as a weight loss advert, but he was plucking at everything in Nigel that went for bad boys.

"Alan Shore, Nigel Kipling," Martha said with an impatient wave of her hand. "There. Oh, Nigel, Alan pulled me a better deal than I could have dreamed of. I have Wen by the _balls_ , now."

"I thought you didn't want a deal?"

*

"Mr Kipling!"

"Sorry!"

*

They briefly discussed the case Nigel wouldn't, in twenty years' time, be allowed to detail in court.

*

"Objection, Your Honor. There has not been a relevant sentence in this entire story so far."

"Sustained."

*

It was then that a tall man dressed in a slick black trenchcoat and a matching hat slunk guiltily into the bar. It was the distinct walk of the determined closet case, distinguishable from 'uncomfortable straight person' by a certain weary resignation in the way his shoulders were drawn up, but not tense, and how fast he walked, as if he was trying to make the window of time in which he was seen in the gay bar pass by as quickly as possible. It was a well-worn slink.

The man headed straight for their table. "Alan," he croaked, and cleared his throat. "Can we talk?"

Alan didn't look up at him, but took a sip of whisky and lit a cigarette.

"Alan!"

"I thought you said you didn't want to see me again."

"I was angry. I'm still angry, dammit."

The man was keeping his head down, but Nigel could see the lower part of his face. He had a strong, handsome jawline with a touch of grey afternoon shadow. He might have been in his 50s. Alan leaned back on the seat and looked up at the man's face, scrutinizing him. Damn, but he was a handsome devil. "So?"

"Please."

"All right." Alan turned to Martha. "Do we have your okay to go to the back?"

"Just don't break the loveseat," said Martha, amused.

"What was that all about?" Nigel asked Martha after they were gone.

"To tell you the truth, I'm astonished," Martha said. "After what Alan did, I thought he'd never talk to him again. He must really be in love."

*

"Objection, Your Honor. This is hearsay."

"I'm only getting to it," Nigel protested.

"Mr Kipling, is this the pinnacle of your evidence?" asked Judge Brown drily.

"No, I'd say the pinnacle came twenty minutes later when Martha and I walked in on them having sex on the backstage loveseat."

A murmur rippled through the court room, and five cameras flashed within a period of three seconds.

"Mr Kipling, is it your testimony that you witnessed Mr Shore having... sexual relations with another man?" the judge asked.

"Yes, it is."

"There is no way you could have been mistaken?"

"Would you like me to describe it in detail?"

*

Nigel saw the undulating shadow of Alan's back before he saw the tangle of bodies on the seat or before he heard Martha cry out in surprise. Martha pushed him back, but not before he'd got a clear sight of Alan's buttocks moving rhythmically up and down, muscled, hairy legs wrapped around his torso...

*

"I think that covers it, Nigel," Alan said calmly, with a quick triumphant smile. Judge Brown's eyes had gone glossy.

Denise requested no cross-examination, her job having been mostly done by Judge Brown himself. The session concluded quickly as the clock approached lunchtime, with further witnesses rescheduled for the afternoon.

Nigel caught up with Alan outside the courtroom and asked to lunch with him.

"I thought you were eager to get back to that scintillating boss of yours," Alan said.

Nigel made a face. "I'm not sure if that's the right word."

"Scintillating?"

"Eager. It's true the place is probably pure chaos without me, but I can spare the duration of one low-fat ginger falafel tortilla."

"Ah, I see you've been to C.A."

"Marvellous, aren't they?"

They found the Christiana Americana lunch café around the corner and ordered a falafel tortilla each. The lights were low even at this hour, the windows shaded by heavy curtains, and there was a low murmur of conversation around.

"I've had you figured out since 1983, you know," Nigel said as he sipped his water.

"Nigel, really. Our orders haven't even arrived yet."

"I'm a busy man. It's better to get things out of the way straight away so they won't spoil your tortilla."

"Fair enough. Go on."

"I didn't recognize the senator back in the Waugh Head, but it all fell into place pretty quickly after I saw his picture in the newspaper the next morning – the one with our friend Wen standing by his shoulder." He paused for effect. "I knew Martha had been dating a politician, and that he'd beat her up pretty badly – you should have seen her. I could have killed that guy. I also knew that he wanted to cut a deal on the assault case so it wouldn't come out."

Alan nodded.

"You tried to bring her a really sorry deal the first time, and she threw it back in your face. That part I don't understand. Why try and screw over your own client?"

"I won't lie," said Alan, leaning on one elbow and toying with his menu. "They made me an offer of work for the mayor's office if I got her to back down quietly. I was ambitious, so I gave it a shot."

"You absolute weasel."

"Oh hush. You work in fashion marketing."

"At least I never tried to screw someone over for a j--" He stopped abruptly, and looked guilty.

"It's different when it's a friend, isn't it?" Alan said with a confidential wink, one weasel to another. "In any case, I repented. She wouldn't budge, and I didn't try again."

"You changed tactics, didn't you? Instead of screwing over your client..."

"...I did it the traditional way and screwed over the opposition."

"By sleeping with Wen's boss and threatening to compromise him if he didn't agree to wring Wen's arm and make him sign that fantastic settlement."

"That _was_ a doozy, wasn't it?" Alan looked pleased with himself.

"Especially the unofficial part Martha told me about. Some of that legislation went on to pave the road to gay marriage."

"I sense that you disapprove."

"I think you're the worst kind of a lawyer. Thank you," he said to the waiter as he brought out their tortillas. A few moments were lost to setting up the table and inhaling the enchanting scent of ginger falafel.

"As I was saying. I think you're corrupt, both morally and legally, and you sleep with older men to further your career. I'm fairly convinced that's what Denny Crane was all about, too. You worm your way into their hearts and confidences and screw them over."

"If that's how you feel, why did you help me?"

"It's like Ms Chase kept saying. Any subjects not directly pertaining to the matter at hand should not be entered into. You slept with the senator after the case was already closed and he had secured your silence, ergo you did it because you wanted to, ergo you are into older men. It's not like Denny Crane comes off as entirely straight either. A staunch anti-gay, anti-women's rights, racist Republican bigshot who was once arrested for soliciting gay sex in a public rest room – face it, he might as well have been sucking cock on national television."

Alan chuckled out loud at that one, a short soft burst of laughter. "Really!"

"Gold digging is bad taste, but I don't think it's illegal as such. In any case I'm not enough of a dick to support a precedent that would break up the marriages of a third of my friends." Nigel shrugged. "By all available evidence, you made an old man happy for a few years. Maybe it was worth the money."

Alan frowned and toyed with his tortilla, turning a leaf of salad over and over with a fork. "You know, Nigel, you may have no reason to believe this, but I loved Denny Crane."

"Oh, I'm sure you did. Loved his bank account, in any case."

Alan's frown deepened, and he shot Nigel a piercing look. "I didn't want his money. He wanted me to have it, which is why he married me. I would give up every cent without hesitation if it could bring him back."

"A fat, ugly, gun-crazy homophobe?" Nigel scoffed. "I believe that as soon as I believe that charity law firm of yours was started out of the goodness of your heart. Are you planning for a political career again?"

"Believe what you like," Alan said quietly.

Nigel shifted uneasily. Maybe he was projecting, or Alan was just an amazing actor, but for a moment he recognized grief. Maybe he'd been wrong. After all, people changed. What was more, they were always more complicated than they seemed at first.

"Well," he said, swallowing a bite of falafel, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

They finished the lunch in awkward silence, shook hands, and hurried back into their lives.


End file.
